An Oath of Brothers by Morgan Rice Page B

delivered six pints of ale. Godfrey took his, Akorth and Fulton each snatched two.
    Godfrey chugged his, drinking greedily, realizing how badly he’d craved it. He savored every sip, realizing as he drank how different this ale tasted from the ale he knew back in the Ring; it was brownish in color, had a nutty, spicy aftertaste to it, tasting something of earth and ashes and fire. It also had a kick, an aftertaste which burned the back of his throat.
    At first Godfrey did not know if he liked it or not; but as he finished it off and set it down, as he gave it a few moments to kick in, he decided it was the best ale he’d ever had. He didn’t know if it just because he was parched, or nervous, or homesick—but he was sure he’d never had anything like it. He also, very quickly, realized it was the strongest ale he’d ever had, feeling light-headed after just one.
    He turned and noticed the delighted eyes of Akorth and Fulton, and realized they loved it, too.
    “Now I can die,” Fulton said.
    “I can live in this city,” Akorth said.
    “You won’t ever get me to leave,” Fulton added. “The Ring? Where’s that?”
    “Who cares?” Akorth said. “Give me a supply of this and I’ll convert. I’ll grow horns.”
    They turned and eyed the sixth and final mug of ale, sitting there on the bar untouched, waiting for Ario. Akorth reached out and slid it over to him.
    “Drink while you can,” Akorth said. “You may not get a second chance. A terrible thing, to die never having had a drink.”
    “And be quick about it,” Fulton added. “You don’t leave a full glass before me and think I won’t drink it.”
    Ario, unsure, tentatively reached out and took the mug. He drank slowly, tasting it, and made a face.
    “Uggh,” he said. “This is awful.”
    Akorth laughed, reached out and snatched it from his hands, the foam spilling over the edge and onto his wrist.
    “I won’t ask you twice,” he said, “and I won’t let it go to waste. Try it again when you have hairs on your chest.”
    Akorth raised the pint to his mouth, but suddenly, unexpectedly, Ario reached out and snatched it from Akorth’s hand. Akorth looked back at him, shocked, as Ario calmly lifted the pint and slowly and steadily drank the entire thing, his throat gulping as he did.
    He didn’t even wince as he gently put it back down, staring Akorth right in the eye.
    Akorth and Fulton looked back at him, clearly shocked. Godfrey was, too.
    “Where did you learn to drink like that, boy?” Godfrey asked, impressed.
    “I thought you’d never had a drink?” Fulton pressed.
    “I didn’t,” Ario answered calmly.
    Godfrey examined him and wondered even more about this boy, so calm, so expressionless, yet always surprising him. He was a boy of few words, yet much action; he was so understated that one underestimated him—and that was his great advantage.
    Godfrey ordered another round, and as it came, he took another long sip and, keeping his head low, he discreetly turned and surveyed his surroundings. Scores of Empire soldiers occupied the room, and he scanned the crowd, looking for any signs of an officer, of someone important. Someone who could be bought. He searched for a face that exuded corruption, greed—an expression that Godfrey, in all his years in the taverns, had come to recognize well.
    Suddenly, Godfrey was jostled, a shoulder bumping him hard on his back. He stumbled forward, spilling the rest of his beer.
    Annoyed, Godfrey turned to see who the offender was, and he saw a large Empire soldier, a foot taller than he, shoulders as wide as he, glaring down at him. His yellow skin turned orange, and Godfrey wondered if this was what happened when they were drunk—or mad.
    “Don’t get in my way again,” he seethed to Godfrey, “or it will be the last time you do.”
    “I’m sorry—” Godfrey began, wanting to draw attention away, about to turn around—but suddenly Merek stepped forward.
    “He wasn’t in your way,”